


Smoke and Mirrors

by Phoebe_Hunter



Category: Amelia Peabody - Elizabeth Peters
Genre: Angst, Humor, M/M, Romance
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-10-28
Updated: 2013-10-28
Packaged: 2017-12-30 19:08:42
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,368
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1022346
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Phoebe_Hunter/pseuds/Phoebe_Hunter
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Five drabbles tracing the relationship between Sethos and his trusted lieutenant.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Smoke and Mirrors

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Sigridhr](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Sigridhr/gifts).



> These were written for Sigridhr, who is a wonderful writer and a great enabler of fandom crazy. :)
> 
> They are, as far am I am aware, canon compliant. I was always very fond of Sir Edward, and I wanted to explore his *cough* relationship with Sethos.
> 
> The italicised lines are from the Livejournal community '52 Prompts'. These were a bit of an experiment to try to kick writers' block and that community has some lovely prompts, though I think it may now be defunt.

_…disappears into emptiness  
with a thousand new disguises._

Sir Edward Washington had never thought of himself as the killing type. He hadn’t been entirely certain he possessed the requisite ruthlessness (or, perhaps, the necessary sense of self-worth). He regarded the four men – all moaning on the floor in states between ‘temporarily incapacitated’ and ‘fatally injured’ with some perturbation.

He supposed it was probably part of his evolution into a hardened criminal.

The heavy thud of footsteps on the stairs behind him galvanised him into action. He fired three shots without thinking. There was a curse, a howl, and a thud.

He’d consider – later, once the adrenaline had worn off and he could swallow without tasting blood – what it was that had prompted him to go racing through Cairo on a fool’s errand to save a man whose name he didn’t know. Whose _face_ he didn’t know.

It took him three kicks (and a bruised foot) to get the door open. The room stank of piss and beer and human misery. Tawdry red drapes dangled over the filthy window. He could just make out the form of a man huddled against the wall, trussed hand and foot.

‘You’re not looking your best, sir.’

The figure made a rasping noise which might have passed as a laugh. ‘Washington?’

‘Yes, sir.’ Renewed pounding on the stairs precluded any further explanation.

 ‘How did you plan to get us out,’ Sethos wheezed as Edward slashed the ropes around his wrists and ankles. He sagged against the younger man as he tried to rise, and Edward could feel the warm wetness of blood soaking through Sethos’ shirt.

‘I’m afraid I’m going to have to throw you out the window, sir.’

He judged it wise to act before Sethos could respond to this remark.

-

_The isolated, the dispossessed, the incommunicado_

Edward had, from a young age, learnt the benefits of an insouciant façade. He had also, from a young age, _reaped_ the benefitsof an insouciant façade. There are harder things in life to play than a dissolute man of the world. He had everything that money could buy (and there were some things he assuredly didn’t _need_ to buy).

He wonders, sometimes, what he would do if he was just Sir Edward Washington, and not Sir Edward Washington, lieutenant to the Master Criminal (a term which makes his superior chuckle whenever he hears it).

This is what: he’d wait for Nefret Forth to blossom into the beauty she’ll surely become, court her, win her and live in matrimonial bliss somewhere in pastoral England with three or four doting children to care for him in his old age.

But that, he told himself, tapping gently on the door to Sethos’ suite, would be boring.

The door opened immediately. He started. Sethos was barefoot and dressed only in a dressing gown.  His face was bare of its usual beard or moustache, and his hair was still damp. He must have towelled it dry in a hurry for it was sticking up in comical tufts. He looked _tired._ There were dark stains under his eyes and his usual crackling vitality seemed muted. 

His eyes tracked the descent of a drop of water from Sethos’ chin as it trickled down, over his collarbone, to vanish under the collar of the dressing gown. 

His quip – _and how is the lovely Mrs Emerson?_ – died on his lips.

-

_We build worlds that destroy us._

Edward’s only comfort was the knowledge that fairly soon he would undoubtedly lose consciousness. The person perpetuating indignities upon his person with a razor had been skilfully avoiding that result, but there was only so much he could take. He was fairly sure at least one of his ribs was broken and he couldn’t see anything out of his left eye.

He had always hoped he’d die spectacularly. Memorably. Not tied to a chair in a bordello with a lunatic chopping into him with a shaving implement.

He suspected he’d lost rather a lot of blood. The pain was fading and suddenly – ridiculously – he felt like laughing. He wasn’t entirely sure why.

Death felt a lot like dreaming. It was deuced irritating that he appeared to have carried his broken ribs into the afterlife. There was something soft beneath his head and the cuts on his arms and torso were stinging. Someone was murmuring softly, keeping up a whispered litany of words he could only half understand.

‘Sir?’ He wasn’t sure how he managed to get the word out between his swollen lips.

‘I’m here, Edward.’

For a moment, Edward almost imagined he could feel warm lips brushing his forehead.

-

_The second-hand victims of loneliness_

It took everything Edward had to keep from laughing out-loud. He was positive Sethos, in full regalia as an elderly American lady, was deliberately treading on his toes. He knew the older man was as graceful a dancer as any. They certainly must have painted an amusing tableau – the long-suffering young gentleman and the corpulent widow befrocked in purple and drenched in rose scent – and they were garnering covert glances and suppressed grins from half the other dancers.

Sethos kept trying to make improper advances.

‘I believe I’m supposed to lead, sir,’ he murmured out of the corner of his mouth.

‘I don’t think so, my boy,’ Sethos said under his breath.

Edward had to step nimbly aside to save his abused toes from further injury.

They opened a bottle of whiskey afterwards to celebrate a job well done. Neither of them commonly drunk to excess, but by the time it came for Sethos to get out of his costume he couldn’t manage it unassisted. Edward struggled with the laces on the back of the hideous gown, cursing and laughing in equal measure.

‘Would’ve thought you’d be better at this,’ Sethos grunted as Edward yanked particularly vigorously.

Edward stilled for a moment. ‘I haven’t had an enormous amount of practice,’ he said quietly.

Sethos met his eyes in the mirror. For once, he didn’t seem to have anything to say.  

Their masquerade required Edward remain in Mrs Hatchett-Waters’ suite until morning. He curled up on the couch, restless. There was silence from Sethos’ room. He sat up, running an irritated hand through his hair, and poured himself another glass of whiskey.

The whiskey remained untouched, and his eyes stayed open, until the first tendrils of the sunrise crept through the window to splash gold upon the heavy rugs.

-

_Move through smoke and mirrors_

They had made a terrible mess of Sethos’ office. An inkpot had been the first casualty, caught by Edward’s elbow and sent skittering across the floor, spilling black ink all over the wooden boards. A stack of papers had followed the inkpot, dispersing across the room in a musty whoosh as Sethos braced a hand on them and slipped. Edward’s shirt, several buttons missing, had toppled a vase (fortunately not an antiquity) from its stand with a resounding crash when it was flung across the room. One boot had ended up atop the bookcase, and the other had vanished into the adjoining room.

Edward regarded himself ruefully in the mirror. There were damp, inky patched in his golden hair and the suit dangling limply from his left hand was beyond repair. He hadn’t even bothered to retrieve the shirt. Or his cravat.

He was also sporting an impressive line of blossoming bruises running from his collarbone up to his chin.

Sethos materialised behind him, dark hair tousled. He had fared somewhat better – he seemed to have managed to avoid the ink. He had pulled his shirt back on and it clung to his broad chest, sticking to the sweat.

‘Mrs Hatchett-Waters is going to gain a formidable reputation,’ he observed, eyeing the bruises, amusement sparking in his dark eyes.

Edward groaned. ‘ _My_ reputation is going to be in tatters.’

The silence hung heavy between them. Edward fought the urge to break it with _whats_ or _hows_ or _whys_ , and settled instead for pouring them both glasses of whiskey.

They chinked the glasses together. ‘By the way, sir,’ Edward begun.

‘Mmm?’ Sethos quirked an eyebrow.

‘Do I still have to call you sir?’

Sethos laughed. ‘That is entirely up to you.’


End file.
